


You Left Your Troubles in My Head

by violue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, M/M, Marijuana, Mentions of PTSD, terrible life verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7017433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violue/pseuds/violue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are clothes on the floor in the living room, pizza boxes, Chinese food cartons, beer cans, some kind of herb crushed into the carpet, a god damn bong on his coffee table. Jesus fucking Christ, Dean was only gone six days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Left Your Troubles in My Head

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Lydie and Emmy for reading this over. (AND THEN KRIS) <3 If anyone finds mistakes, it's all their fault. :)
> 
> This was written for the Destiel Smut Brigade bingo challenge! Bingo card is below.

**

 

**THEN**

 

 _The club is called Telescope, but Dean doesn’t see that reflected in the decor. Then again, how would one really decorate a club with a telescope theme? There’s a lot of black,_ _naugahyde furniture, lucite table and chair legs, and big, chunky glitter on fucking everything. Dean’s never been to a rave, but this place reminds him of raves he’s seen on TV. The lights are flickering, blaring, and flashing overhead. It’s probably supposed to be fun, but all Dean can think is how Cuthbert Sinclair over in HR would have an epileptic seizure after thirty seconds in this place. Cuthbert isn’t here, though, because Cuthbert wasn’t invited. Because Cuthbert creeps everyone out._

_The crowd here is a pretty decent mix of people from the company. Lots of IT people, like Charlie, Ash, Ian, and that Wesson guy, a mess of people from accounting, lower level managers like Crowley and Ellsworth, two interns that might not even be the legal drinking age yet, and a bunch of people that work for Dean in Sales and Marketing._

_They’re here for… something. A party. Someone’s leaving? Getting married? Getting a promotion? Dean can’t remember. The people that invited him along had been so enthusiastic, it was hard to say no. At least everyone’s having a good time. Crowley and Charlie are looking cozy on the dance floor, and if Dean wasn’t ninety-nine percent sure that Charlie once told him she was gay, he’d be expecting them to hook up. Wesson got a pink feather boa from somewhere and is whipping it around over his head while he hops about to the beat of some pop song Dean’s never heard before. The guy is tall, taller than Dean, and any minute now the table Wesson is standing on is going to collapse under his weight, Dean just knows it._

_This would all be much more fun if Dean were getting wasted like everyone else, but when he looks at all the various drinks available, all he sees are empty calories and bad decisions._

_Looking over at the gorgeous, blue-eyed bartender that keeps undressing Dean with his eyes, though… Dean might be willing to make a bad decision anyway._

 

**NOW**

 

What a long, shitty, unproductive trip. If Dean’s being honest with himself, his heart hasn’t been in this job in a long time, and that’s never been more clear than it was at the company retreat, which was supposed to be all about grooming Dean and a few others for _upper-_ upper management. Dean sat around, drinking brandy (ugh) and smoking cigars (even more ugh) with his superiors, laughing at their jokes, rattling out his ten year plan, and _dying_ on the inside. This job used to bring him a sense of accomplishment, the son of a surly mechanic and a tough-as-nails bar owner going from Sioux Falls to Stanford to being the youngest director of Sales and Marketing in Sandover history. Dean’s got a sales record that’s a major source of envy in his department, he’s got the fancy car, the great apartment, piles of cash earning interest in his account, and if Adler’s to be believed, Dean’s on his way to being Senior Vice President of Sandover’s Eastern Great Lakes division in just “eight to ten short years”.

Dean trudges past his doorman with a brief nod, wheels on his suitcase loud against the paved walkway. He’s early by a day, but fuck he couldn’t take it anymore. He’d told everyone he was feeling sick, and no one had even questioned him, because if Dean Smith is looking to ditch a company retreat, he _must_ be sick. All he wants to do is get in his apartment, shower off his plane ride from Aspen, and crawl into bed with his nice, loving—

Dean freezes as he opens the door to his apartment and steps inside.

It’s… a mess. There are clothes on the floor in the _living room,_ pizza boxes, Chinese food cartons, beer cans, some kind of herb crushed into the carpet, a god damn _bong_ on his coffee table. Jesus fucking Christ, Dean was only gone six days.

Castiel is sprawled out in front of the fireplace, sleeping in Dean’s clothes, cat resting on his chest.

The cat’s interesting, since they don’t _have_ a fucking cat.

The orange tabby opens one eye to look at Dean, then the other eye, then it scampers off of Castiel’s chest and into the bedroom, startling Castiel awake. Castiel looks around in confusion, face falling when he sees Dean.

“Y-you’re early,” he says, yawning.

“Don’t look so happy to see me, Cas,” Dean grouses, wondering if the green shit all over the floor is catnip or pot. Catnip makes more sense, who would waste pot like that?

Castiel scrambles to his feet, tripping over a pile of magazines scattered on the floor. “I _am_ happy to see you, Dean,” he says, rushing over, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck and breathing deep. “I missed you. I just… thought you would be home tomorrow. I was going to clean this all up, I thought I had time.”

“Look at you, like a shifty teenager whose parents just got home early,” Dean says, returning Castiel’s hug. Castiel smells like a mixture of cinnamon and pot smoke, it’s oddly comforting.

“I’m sorry, I know you hate when I’m messy like this.”

“How were you going to hide the _cat,_ Cas? Were you going to stash him in the closet and sneak some Claritin into my coffee every morning?”

Castiel frowns. “You’re allergic? You never told me that.”

“It didn’t come up. Have you ever told me _your_ allergies?”

“I don’t have any.”

Dean groans, breaking their hug to close the front door. “Cas, we can’t have a cat. This isn’t a _cat_ kind of building.”

“Mrs. Visyak on the tenth floor has a cat,” Castiel says defensively.

“And they charged her a three thousand dollar pet deposit.”

“For a _cat_?”

“It’s an expensive building.”

Castiel shakes his head in disgust. “Well, I’ll give you three thousand dollars, then.”

Dean sighs, rubbing his temples with his fingers. There’s no way Castiel has three thousand dollars handy. He makes peanuts at the Gas-N-Sip, and insists on giving more than half his paycheck to help Dean pay for rent for this ridiculously large apartment.

Dean hasn’t said anything, but instead of paying rent with the money, he’s been putting it in a bank account. Castiel might be annoyed when he finds out, but maybe he’ll just be excited to learn he has nearly four thousand dollars waiting for him.

“It’s fine, Cas,” Dean says, looking at Castiel’s sad blue eyes. In the five months since Dean met Castiel back at Telescope, he’s learned one truly unfortunate thing about himself; he’ll almost always cave when Castiel wants something. At work Dean is a shark, a pro at getting what he wants. At home… not so much.

It had all started simply enough. Dean and Castiel got caught fucking in the bathroom at Telescope, Castiel lost his job and subsequently his apartment above the club, and Dean offered him a couch to sleep on.

It wasn’t supposed to turn into… this. Within a week Castiel’s stuff had been moved into the house. Within two weeks Castiel was sleeping in Dean’s room. By the time a month had passed, Castiel was getting mail here. And that was that. Dean woke up one day with a live-in stoner boyfriend. A live-in stoner boyfriend that has Dean wrapped around his finger, whether he realizes it or not.

And it’s about the only part of Dean’s life he’s actually happy about, even if he’s going to have to shell out three thousand bucks and probably see if he has any Benadryl in the apartment.

“Dean?”

Dean blinks a few times, realizing Castiel is staring at him with his big, dumb, concerned eyes. “Sorry, did you say something?”

“I said you should take a long shower,” Castiel says slowly, “and I’ll clean up.”

Dean looks around at the clutter and nods. “Yeah, alright.”

“Where did you go just now?” Castiel’s head is tilted inquisitively. Dean loves that head tilt.

“Just wondering if I have any Benadryl in the apartment.”

“In the medicine cabinet.”

Dean nods, pulling his suitcase to his room while Castiel starts picking up his garbage.

 

*

 

Dean stands in his shower for several minutes before he even starts moving, wondering what to do about the cloud of displeasure still clinging to him after his trip. He can faintly hear the sound of his vacuum running in the living room. Castiel probably thinks Dean is pissed about the mess, because when this first started, Dean got pissed a lot. Castiel would make a mess and _leave it,_ and when Dean got mad about it, Castiel would hurry to clean it up, sulking and looking like he expected Dean to dump him and throw him out on his ass at any moment. Castiel has offered to leave several times, actually. Dean had to ask him to stop suggesting it.

“Is this your first fucking relationship, Cas?” Dean had snapped. “People get into arguments about dumb shit, and then they get past it.”

“I would rather go live in Balthazar’s garage and continue to date you than continue living here and risk ruining everything,” Castiel had replied, tears in his eyes.

“You’ve got to stop talking about leaving,” Dean had begged, “unless you _want_ to leave. I want you here, but only if you want to be. And when you keep bringing up leaving, it makes me feel like you don’t wanna be here.”

Then Castiel had kissed Dean, and they’d fallen into bed, and never really finished the conversation. Maybe they should. This relationship can’t last if Castiel keeps acting like Dean’s a landlord with benefits, and Dean _wants_ it to last.

There’s movement in the bathroom, and then Castiel is stepping into the shower, naked, tan, and smiling.

“Thought you were cleaning,” Dean says absently. Dumb.

“Well, I was, but then I stopped.”

“Yeah?”

“My feelings of inferiority often have me lapsing into a submissive and servile state of being when I sense your displeasure,” Castiel says, reaching for Dean’s jojoba oil body wash. “I contribute very little as far as money goes, I’m a convenience store clerk, I spend far too much of my excess funds on marijuana.” Castiel lathers his hands up and starts rubbing soap onto Dean’s body. “Meanwhile, you’re wealthy, educated… successful. You are the breadwinner. It leaves me feeling like I need to… earn my keep. Despite your many reassurances over the past months, I’ve often found myself stuck in the mindset that this arrangement is a favor.”

“I know it started out that way, Cas, but—”

“I know,” Castiel says, smiling. “I know. That’s why I stopped cleaning. I’m not your houseguest, I’m your boyfriend. And so… I’ll clean when I feel like it.”

Dean grins, tilting his head so he can kiss the taste of pot smoke out of Castiel’s mouth. “I’m really, _really_ glad to hear that, Cas.”

“I _am_ sorry for the cat, though,” Castiel says earnestly. “Houseguest _or_ boyfriend, moving a pet into our home without discussing it with you first was impolite. Nora is moving in with her boyfriend, and he refused to take the cat in, so Nora was hoping to rehome her. I should have asked you first.”

“I would have said yes.”

“Still, it was inconsiderate.”

Dean smirks. “Yeah. It’s a cute cat, though. And my allergies aren’t that bad. We’re good, Cas.”

Castiel nods, sighing happily as he wraps his arms around Dean. “I’m so happy you’re home. I was lonely without you, and it was hard to sleep with your side of the bed cold, and no cute little snores coming from next to me.”

“I don’t _snore_.”

“Sure you do,” Castiel says, making a soft snoring sound in Dean’s ear. “I love it.”

Dean huffs in embarrassment. “Tell me what else you missed.”

“Waking up to the scent of coffee and you demanding I kiss you before you leave for work, massaging your shoulders in the evening and hearing your voice get progressively more relaxed as you tell me about your day, the texts you send me with pictures of your boss napping at his desk. Thursday came, and you weren’t here to casually flip to Doctor Sexy on TV and then leave the channel on, saying there’s probably nothing else on anyway, when I know you just really want to watch. I ordered pizza, and you weren’t here to lie and say that smelling it was just as good as eating it while you shovelled forkfuls of salad in your mouth. I watched a Project Runway marathon on Lifetime because I know you love the show, and I was pretending you were with me.”

Castiel’s grip around Dean tightens. He’s tense. The mood has shifted, and Dean doesn’t know why.

“I was having nightmares again.”

Dean’s heart sinks. “Oh, Cas.” He hasn’t really finished showering, but he turns off the water anyway, ushering Castiel out of the shower and over to the towels. Castiel bundles up in Dean’s robe, hugging the dark blue fabric close as he shuffles into the bedroom. There’s a litterbox in the corner that Dean’s definitely moving to the bathroom later, he’s not sleeping in the same room as cat shit.

Now that Dean knows to look for them, he can see the signs that Castiel hasn’t been sleeping well. Shadows under his eyes, nails worn down where he’s been chewing on them, making impulse decisions like adopting a _cat_. The pot does a surprisingly good job at helping Castiel with his PTSD symptoms, but no system is perfect, and eventually the nightmares come back for a night or two, maybe longer. Sometimes there’s a reason, sometimes it’s just at random. It sucks, but it’s reality.

“Do you want to talk about them?” Dean says carefully as he crawls into bed, towel still around his waist. Sometimes Castiel reacts to this question with tears and information Dean is not equipped to handle, sometimes Castiel reacts with anger, sometimes he doesn’t react at all.

“Not really,” Castiel says, snuggling up close to Dean. “It’s not anything you haven’t heard before. Blah, blah, blah, war is Hell.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t talk about it. How many times have I told you that story about my sister almost drowning on our family vacation?”

Castiel sighs. “It was Uriel’s birthday this week, so I’ve been dreaming about Uriel.”

Ah, Uriel Irving. Castiel’s commanding officer. Not dead, unlike most of Castiel’s unit, instead he’s in prison for fucking _war crimes_ that Castiel refused to go into, either because he legally can’t, or because whatever happened is too disturbing to discuss.

“What were the dreams about?”

“Fire and brimstone,” Castiel mutters. He glances over at Dean. “Literally. I dreamed that Uriel was an angel, raining fire and brimstone down on the city. I begged him to stop, he told me I was weak. Other times... I dreamed about the sandbox, mundane memories really, but they were different. I was afraid in all of them. Playing poker with Uriel, helping him gather some papers that spilled on the floor, getting chewed out by him for standing around with my hands in my pockets when he wanted something to bitch about. It was all boring, trivial stuff, but in the _dream_ , I was terrified through all of it; this bone deep fear I could feel through every part of my body. When I woke up, the fear was still there for hours.”

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Dean says, hugging Castiel tight. He hates to think of Castiel all alone and afraid in this big apartment.

He doesn’t know the specifics of Castiel’s service; when he served, how long he served, even _where_ he served, really. He just knows Castiel was in the Army, saw a lot of shit, lost a lot of friends, and left with bullet wounds, emotional scars, and a Purple Heart that Dean’s seen him use as a tiny ashtray.

“I have heard that pets can be really good for veterans with PTSD,” Castiel says casually.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Cas, you can keep the cat, you don’t have to sell me on it.”

“I just thought I’d mention a possible benefit of having a furry friend in the house.”

“Mhmm. It got a name?”

“ _She,_ and no. Not yet.”

“Afraid you’d get attached if you gave her a name?”

“I’ve just been… mulling it over. I’ll think of something soon. Can we sleep for a while?”

“Yeah, that’s cool with me,” Dean says. He’s not really ready to sleep. There’s still unpacking to do, a damn litter box in the room, and he’s still wearing a towel, but if Castiel wants to sleep… Dean can sleep.

“Just for a bit. In and out of dreamland in a flash,” Castiel says. He does this when he’s down. Sometimes ten minutes, sometimes a few hours, but provided he doesn’t have a nightmare, the naps do a good job at resetting his mood a little. A “soft reboot” he calls it sometimes.

“And I gotta come with you, huh?”

Castiel’s arms are tight around Dean as they lie on their sides. “You’ll keep me safe.”

Right. _Dean_ will keep him safe. Dean’s not the one with military training, but okay. “If I’m going to keep you safe, shouldn’t I be the big spoon?”

“No,” Castiel mutters, kissing the back of Dean’s neck.

 

*

 

“Do you remember the night we met?”

Dean blinks himself awake, disoriented. He has no idea how much time has passed, he can’t see his alarm from his position on the bed. “What?” he mumbles.

“I asked if you remembered the night we met.”

“Wasn’t that long ago, ‘course I remember.”

“You looked good in that bathroom,” Castiel says, “all sweaty and desperate.”

Alright, so apparently Castiel has “soft rebooted”, and woken up horny.

“I wasn’t… _that_ sweaty,” Dean says, fidgeting with his towel.

“You were glowing with _something,_ ” Castiel says, rubbing a hand along Dean’s terry cloth-covered thigh.

“Animal lust, I guess.” Dean’s still not entirely awake, but he’s getting hard anyway.

“Mhmm.” Castiel rolls Dean onto his back and straddles him, leaning forward for a kiss. Castiel’s kisses are hungry, loving, possessive.

“Cas,” Dean whines, dick thickening when Castiel starts trailing kisses down his jaw. “What about the cat?”

“She’s a cat,” Castiel mutters, fingers toying with Dean’s nipples, “she doesn’t care.” He pulls the robe off, flinging it behind him. “Touch me, Dean.”

Dean complies, hands skirting along Castiel’s thighs, up his sides, around to his back. “I didn’t mention this before when we were talking, but… I missed you too,” he says.

“Promise?”

Dean tangles one hand in Castiel’s slightly damp hair, gripping the short strands and rocking his hips upward. “I promise, Cas. Six days talking about profit margins with a bunch of men twenty years older than me isn’t as fun as you might think.”

“Sounds like a real party.” Castiel leans away from Dean, digging around in the nightstand and coming back with their bottle of lube. Dean practically drools at the sight of the bottle, scrambling onto his knees, bracing against the wall at the head of the bed. When he looks back, Castiel is clutching the bottle and staring at him in surprise.

“What? I told you I missed you.”

“I am flattered by your eagerness,” Castiel purrs, walking closer on his knees until he’s plastered up against Dean’s back. Dean shudders, spreading his knees apart.

There’s silence, there’s impatient fingers, there’s Dean moaning and squirming, there’s Castiel panting in Dean’s ear. Castiel works Dean open and eventually fishes a condom out of the nightstand to roll onto his cock.

“I think I want to quit my job,” Dean blurts out, just as Castiel slides inside.

Castiel freezes. “I thought you loved your job.”

“I’m good at my job. I don’t love it. And spending another decade and beyond rising up through the ranks… I don’t know if I have it in me, Cas.”

Castiel slowly pulls back, almost all the way out. “How long have you felt this way?”

Dean’s hands clench where they’re braced against the wall. “Long time. Since before I got the big office,” he says, breath coming out in a rush when Castiel presses all the way back inside.

Castiel repeats the motion, just barely faster this time. “Why have you stayed so long?”

“Money.”

“Mmm, I admire your honesty,” Castiel says, sounding amused.

“What else am I gonna say? I became Director of Sales and Marketing to help people? Because it was my grandfather’s dying wish? No, I wanted to be wealthy and successful, and pay off my fortune in business school loans. Which I did. A long time ago.”

“And now?”

“And now, I think I’m done,” Dean says, leaning back against Castiel as his thrusts start to pick up speed.

“What do you want to do next?” Castiel asks, teeth grazing the shell of Dean’s ear.

“I have no fucking idea,” Dean moans. “Become a farmer? Start a band? Sell handmade baskets out of a stall at the county fair? Flip burgers at that place across from the Gas-N-Sip?”

“You’d look good in a band,” Castiel says, thumb dragging down Dean’s chest. “Do you play an instrument?”

“I have a guitar.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it. I’ve also never seen you play it, I assumed it was a decoration.”

“I’ve been _busy._ ”

Castiel snickers, one hand making its way to Dean’s cock. “I see. Well, perhaps once you’ve quit your job, you’ll have time to play for me?”

Dean tries to answer, but Castiel’s fingers are circling his dick, and that’s way more interesting than whatever they were just talking about. “Feels good, Cas,” he mutters, bracing himself against the wall again. “Keep going.”

“As you wish.” Castiel strokes Dean in time with the fast, sharp motions of his hips, making these soft gasps that have been driving Dean wild since the night they met. So quiet and earnest, like maybe Castiel is always a little stunned by how this feels.

A few minutes pass, where Dean is just drifting on the sounds of their pleasure, tugged closer to orgasm by Castiel’s hands, Castiel’s entire body. Forget working. Forget Adler’s proposed bonus, lunch at his desk, running the company’s fantasy football league... Dean wants to do _this_ every day.

Castiel chuckles softly behind him. “Do you?”

Oh. Dean said some of that out loud. Embarrassing. “Shut up, Cas,” he grumbles, thighs tensing.

“I _could_ do this every day,” Castiel whispers, “I have excellent stamina.”

Dean fingers are digging into the wall, nails leaving the faintest of impressions in the paint. It’s the sight of that imperfection on his boring wall, that reminder of the impression Castiel has left on Dean’s boring life that has Dean coming, quiet but intense. Castiel lets out a pleased hum, arms wrapping tight around Dean as he continues delivering firm, strong thrusts until he too is coming.

Dean allows them both all of sixty seconds of stillness before he has to move away, groaning as he becomes aware of the cramp in his thighs. “That’s it, nothing but gentle missionary for the rest of the week,” he says, “my knees are aching already.”

“Mon pauvre bébé,” Castiel says, snickering.

“Don’t act like your legs aren’t sore,” Dean says, flopping over onto his back while Castiel tosses his condom in the wastebasket by the bed. Castiel picks Dean’s towel up off the bed, cleaning them up the best he can before dropping it on the floor despite Dean’s whines of protest.

“Even if they are, you’ll never know,” Castiel says, smirking.

“Yeah, yeah, big tough soldier, _never_ whines about leg cramps.”

“Poor, soft businessman.”

“Soon to be ex-businessman. I’m going to be a basketweaver or whatever I said.” Dean sneezes, and sighs. The allergies are starting.

Castiel’s smirk falls away to concern. “Is the Benadryl not helping?”

Dean wraps his arms around Castiel and hugs him close. “Might need something stronger. I’ll worry about it later.”

“What if you sneeze on my bare skin?”

Dean rubs his nose all over Castiel’s back, grinning when he squirms. “Then you’ll just have to learn to love it.”

“I suppose I have all this snot coming for bringing a cat in here.”

“Hey,” Dean says, frowning into Castiel’s hair, “we’re cool on the cat front, okay? I swear. You don’t have to feel guilty, or make it up to me.”

“I was going to offer to let you name her.”

“Really? I can name your cat?”

“I… maybe that’s a bad idea.”

“What? I can name a fucking cat, I named my goldfish when I was a kid.”

“Alright, what did you name your goldfish?”

“Dean.”

“I changed my mind, I’ll name her myself.”

“I was _five,_ Cas! And it only lived for like two weeks anyway.”

“Forgive me if I’m not suddenly filled with confidence.”

“Come on! Let me name her!”

Castiel scoots away enough to lie on his back, turning his head toward Dean. “You said I didn’t have to make it up to you, so…”

“But you _offered_ to let me name her.”

“I did. Alright, what’s her name? And it can’t be Dean.”

“I wasn’t going to _say_ Dean.”

“Just in case.”

“Telescope.”

“Telescope,” Castiel repeats.

“Yeah, Telescope. Like the club we met in. Me glowing with animal lust in the bathroom, glitter all over the bar, you know the place.”

“You want to name her after the place we met?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s… that’s very sweet, Dean,” Castiel says. He moves close again, close enough so he can roll over and bury his face in Dean’s shoulder.

“You’re about to cry, aren’t you?”

“No,” Castiel grumbles.

Dean smiles. “Don’t worry, baby. It’s just between you and me.”

Castiel sniffles. “And Telescope.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've never really done prompts before, it was weird and fun and WHY DO SO MANY OF MY STORIES INVOLVE DEAN AND CAS WITH CATS? I feel like maybe I cheated as far as the telescope square goes, but I REALLY LIKED THIS IDEA AND THE TELESCOPE DIDN'T FIT. To make up for it, the fic's title is from the song "Telescope", from ABC's (canceled) series Nashville.


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